


l'œil du cyclone

by unavoidablekoishi



Category: The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms, The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild
Genre: Angst, Gen, Honestly a little bit shameless, Pre-Calamity, Reflection, ish, vent - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-10-08
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:28:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26886631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unavoidablekoishi/pseuds/unavoidablekoishi
Summary: The ripples of his gale can still be felt after 100 years.
Comments: 13
Kudos: 33





	l'œil du cyclone

Medoh is always deathly cold. It’s deceptive, and there’s no real way of knowing it until you’re there. The view from above is pleasant and victorious- it provides triumph, but no elation. The distance is too great. The peaks of the mountains become grey, almost disappearing into the clouded sky altogether, and the horizon is so much further than once remembered.

This Divine Beast is a testament to his strength and will. Much like him, it soars far, far above the land from which it was born, and he daren’t let it perch. Not yet. Medoh won’t rest until he rests and, with the apex of his ambitions within reach, it’ll continue to fly, even if he is unable to see anybody from where it takes him.

Still, the sky is a lonely place. The further you fly, the more you leave behind- the higher you go, the less there is to see, and that’s fine. He enjoys the solitary nature of flying. Being observed from a distance is how he thrives. but, secretly, he enjoys the landings too. The ground is always warmer than he expects. It’s a bit like coming home, in a way, but it never lasts long. 

To be seen from a distance, you must be great. You have to move to be seen, and those movements must be grandiose. People won’t notice the subtleties from afar. They need magnificence and extravagance, to be able to watch in slack-jawed awe. The sky is the greatest canvas for somebody like him, but it’s hard to relish in the hard-earned reactions of those around you when you are just as far away from them as they are from you.

But too much time on the ground is what drives him to desire the freedom of the skies. On the ground, there is no need for flamboyance. Those around you will begin to notice the small things. A small twitch, something barely noticeable in the sky, suddenly makes an enormous ripple that is uncontrollable and hard to conceal. Big movements are unnecessary and obnoxious. The one thing he relies on will only work in his favour once he leaves the warmth of the ground.

So he stays in the sky. Far from the rest of the world, where his small twitches cannot be seen. Where his flaws, the blemishes of his personality, cannot be perceived. Every landing is rehearsed. Every interaction that takes place on the foreign ground he calls home is staged. Every word, practiced. He runs it through his head, over and over. All meetings with him are predetermined. He’ll be seen, if he wants to be seen.

It never goes to plan, though. No matter how many strategies he concocts, or how many scripts he writes, something unprompted always happens. Whether these mishaps occur in the form of a silent, stoic soldier, or a stern warrior, moulded and eroded by the sands of her home, they always, always ruin his plans. Just a small quirk of the brow, or a slight glint in the eye, is enough to send him reeling, desperate to rewrite the scenario he’d envisioned. It’s not how it’s supposed to be. It’s not how he wanted it to go.

One slip is enough for him. That’s all it takes to send him back to the skies, vowing things nobody will ever hear. Things he will never tell anybody. The thoughts that make his feathers itch and his head hurt are funnelled into becoming better. It’s balanced, but the pursuit to better himself in ways that others will never perceive, result in scars that harden into a defence against something he doesn’t know.

People don’t see that from the ground. The hairline crack that runs across one side of his beak. The odd tuft of feathers on his torso that grow in a direction different from the rest. The slightly discoloured patch on his leg from where the skin had healed badly. All could be concealed by the empty, forgiving nature of the open sky. The sky offered him nothing but peace. He can’t fathom fearing it- not when it’s the ground you’re afraid of hitting.

There was no reason to tell anyone about these things. People like him thrived in fiction. A tragic hero. Somebody to sympathise with, somebody to relate to-- that doesn’t happen in real life. In real life, you were… you. As much as you didn’t want to be, you were you, and there was nothing incredible about that. He’d considered telling his story. Maybe he’d even  _ wanted _ to tell his story, but it was far from a work of fiction. It would be a cry for help, and he’d sworn never to cry. Shedding was for feathers, not for tears, he’d joked to himself, resenting the prickle behind the eyes and the ache in the jaw that had soon become unbearable.

It’s something he curses. He should know better now. He should’ve learnt, by now. Yet, it’s a vicious cycle that leaves the breath inside his lungs as cold and bitter as the gale around him, and he allows himself to be swept up into it. He won’t stop until it’s second nature to him, even though he doesn’t know what it will feel like.

I must stay in the eye of the whirlwind, he vows. The centre is a position of supremacy. It requires unmatched skill to stay unscathed within a tempest of chaos, but this skill doesn’t come naturally. It’s years of hitting the snow hard enough to stain it, and feathers ripped out, scattered across the mountains. He’s given his body to be able to reach out to that one sanctuary- a place nobody else can find. A haven that belongs to him. 

People find comfort in the strangest of places, but when you get in, you can’t get back out, and the eye of the hurricane is the worst place to be.

A prison disguised as a sanctuary.

* * *

  
  


_ He’s a bit like a mountain berry, _

_ Frosty on the outside- but still fresh, _

_ And yet, though unseen, _

_ There’s something desirable inside, _

_ Could be sweet, could be sour _

_ Edible, nonetheless _

_ … _

Maybe.


End file.
